


Larceny, Lawlessness and Opium

by sgam76



Series: Scheherezade 'verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Because everyone wanted more of Pasha, But it's really a caper fic, Gen, Great Hiatus, Mild Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock's adventures in Russia, Sherlock's time away, When Sherlock met Pasha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-10 18:52:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18413843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/pseuds/sgam76
Summary: During Sherlock's two years away, he endured pain, and loneliness, and severe trauma. But he was also lucky enough to encounter people--only a few, and only for a time--who made things easier, made it bearable.Pasha is one of those people. He is also, occasionally, a major pain in the arse. It's the largest part of his charm.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dragonnan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/gifts).



> This story is for the lovely Dragonnan, who has been kind enough to draw several gorgeous illustrations for my stories out of the goodness of her heart. Though numerous people had expressed a wish to see more of Pasha, she was particularly hopeful to do so. So, Dragon m'dear, this one's for you!
> 
> It will be short (well, for me--only 2 long chapters), but I hope it's fun.
> 
> NOTE: It's not essential that you read Scheherezade to understand this one--it does stand on its own. But to fully understand where this friendship went, and what it meant to Sherlock, I strongly recommend that you read it, if you haven't already.

**_Pavel Alexeivitch Volkov (Pasha)_ **

 

It was the kind of day that made you swear: cold, grey, and oppressively wet, dampness seeping in through every gap in the old truck cab despite Pasha’s best efforts to close things up tightly. There was only so much one could do with a truck composed more of rust and positive thoughts than sheet metal, after all.

It didn’t help that Pasha was not supposed to be here— “here” being a narrow, muddy, half-abandoned track 80 kilometers from home, a load of semi-legal alcohol and definitely illegal firearms stowed in the hidden compartments in the bottom of the truck. This was supposed to be his long weekend to drive to Safony and visit his daughter, many miles away, where it possibly wasn’t raining and cold, and where there would be a hot meal and, maybe, a warm welcome awaiting him. But instead, an early-morning call from one of Borodin’s lieutenants had roused him from his warm bed. Despite his bitter protestations and every amount of bargaining he could muster, his orders were clear: do the run, pick up the payment, store it safely and bring it back when he returned from Safony. The consequences of failure weren’t specifically described, which made the possibilities all the more chilling. Borodin was appallingly imaginative in such areas.

Pasha got dressed, ate a sour breakfast, and climbed into the truck.

 

 

 

The road got worse as time went by; a sheen of ice coated portions of the muddy ruts, making the truck’s elderly tires slither sideways like an amusement park ride. By the time he reached the derelict farm where he was to meet his “customers”, sleet was falling, making it difficult to keep the windscreen clear, to the point that he almost missed the turnoff into the barn lot.

The farm looked much as he’d expected: dejected-looking animals, draped in blankets and hunched in open stalls; tumbledown outbuildings; trash littering the ground. As he pulled in, two men hustled out, one short and broad, the other taller and timid-looking. As Pasha stopped the truck and got out, both men raised shotguns and waited.

“I was told to bring a delivery to Shishani,” Pasha said. “With payment on delivery.” He didn’t trust Chechens; in Pasha’s experience, treachery was their favourite sport, followed closely by back-stabbing and torture. In this case, he cared only that the delivery be completed as requested, and that he received payment. Since he hadn’t been told how much that payment was to be, any shortfall was Borodin’s problem. Pasha’s main concern was returning _with_ payment, and _without_ a knife between his ribs.

The shorter man stepped up, bringing a strong odour of unwashed body and onions with him. “I am Shishani,” he said. “But who the fuck are you? We get our goods from Popov, once a month, regular as clockwork.”

“Not Popov,” Pasha said, just to be difficult. “I am given to understand that Popov met with a fatal accident while cleaning his pistol. Shot himself four times, somehow.” He gave an intentionally wolfish grin. He hadn’t been too disturbed by Popov’s fate—it was rumoured the man had been indulging his taste for little girls, and had been indiscreet. And if Pasha had just happened to pass on such rumours in the hearing of the local _Politsiya_ officer, well, that was just coincidental, after all.

The shotguns lowered, but the two remained wary.

The short Chechen grunted. “Why did we not hear of this from Borodin?” he said with a scowl. “Instead he sends some nobody, some _farmer_ , and we should take your word?”

Faster than the small man could blink, Pasha was gripping his shirtfront, the point of a very large knife, previously concealed in Pasha’s boot top, pressing against the Chechen’s throat. “Because I am not _quite_ a farmer,” Pasha purred. “Now, are you ready to stop dicking about, or should I slit your throat and leave?”

Predictably enough, the threat of violence served as the proper social lubricant for the Chechens. After being released by Pasha, Shishani and his mute partner (“Dudayev”, said Popov. “He doesn’t speak.") became affable enough, unloading the truck and serving up borscht with sour cream, fresh bread and strong tea in celebration. Not _good_ tea, but it was warm, as was the soup, so Pasha had no complaints. Except—

“Where is the payment, then?” he asked, when the Chechens showed every inclination of hosting him through dinner or beyond. “I have somewhere to be tomorrow, and it’s a long drive back.”

Shishani waved an airy hand. “Patience, Russian,” he said. “I would like to enlist your aid in a negotiation with Borodin first.”

“Or after,” Pasha said, with a stony look. Shishani glared, but ultimately yielded and sent Dudayev to retrieve a large, tightly-wrapped box that the silent man dropped next to Pasha’s chair.

“So?” Shishani said. “Our negotiation?”

And Pasha, feeling somewhat mellowed by success and a tolerable meal, relented. “All right. What do you want?”

Shishani gave a sly look. “We have a prisoner,” he said. “Someone we think Borodin may find interesting. We caught him sneaking around the storage warehouse last week. He’s educated, not local, not Chechen, and we’ve asked around—no one admits knowing of him.”

Pasha rolled his eyes. “And of course, you’ve asked everyone who might know,” he said sarcastically. “From among the, oh, six people who live within twenty kilometers of here. And Borodin was your very _first_ thought, but it took you more than a week to mention it to anyone.”

Shishani tried to hold an outraged look momentarily, but gave it up as a bad deal. “All right,” he chuckled. “We didn’t plan on Borodin to begin with. To be honest, we thought about selling him to the Afghans—they come through here regular, you know, and we sell a fair amount of weapons on to them. And he’s quite pretty, even though he’s a little long in the tooth for their typical fare. They’re always interested in that kind of merchandise as well—a pretty boy fetches quite a good price.”

“But?” Pasha said.

“But he’s sick,” the Chechen said glumly. “Really sick. And the Afghans aren’t due back for another couple of weeks. So if he dies on us in between, we get nothing. But everything I said about him is true, I swear—I’m not even sure he’s Russian. His accent is good, but he has an odd turn of phrase now and again.”

“While he’s being tortured?” Pasha said drily.

“Just so,” Shishani chuckled.

Pasha thought about Borodin’s likely reaction, and sighed. “All right,” he said. “Take me to him.”

“Oh, no,” Shishani said hurriedly. “He is not here—we have him in a, a special enclosure. Some distance away. We will bring him to Borodin if he is interested.”

Pasha, nasty, suspicious mind that he had, knew there was more to this. But he also knew that (1) dark was approaching, and he would be driving a long distance through sleet on bad roads; and (2) honestly, he didn’t give a fuck. Let Borodin sort it out, if he wanted to.

“Fine,” he huffed. “Put the box in the truck. I will speak with Borodin about this when I see him, but that will be a few days. I’m heading down south until Tuesday, so I’ll talk to him then, assuming your prisoner is still alive. Just let me know if he dies before that.”

 

 

 

 

Five minutes later he was on his way, giving a cursory wave to the Chechens. The box slid back and forth in the closed truck bed behind him—the idiots hadn’t bothered to secure it, and Pasha wasn’t about to stop for that now. If a little cash happened to spill into the corners of his truck, that was hardly his fault, now was it? Borodin would survive the loss.

He had managed a fair distance, perhaps 25 kilometers, when he came around a curve in the muddy track and saw something dark in the road. He managed, just, to avoid hitting it by jerking the wheel and sending the right-hand wheels into the stony ditch along the verge. He started to back up and go around, only to find the front wheel was stuck on something, spinning and grinding but not moving the truck. He turned the engine off, cursed, and went out to clear it.

He’d assumed the object in the road was a branch, or perhaps a fallen deer, hit by a previous vehicle. As he came around the truck, though, he pulled up in surprise—there, in the road, was a body, clad in trousers, a thin, long-sleeved shirt and nothing else-- no coat, no hat, no gloves. He assumed the person was dead; inconvenient bodies often found themselves abandoned in little-traveled areas like this one. Just as he turned to return to freeing the wheel, though, the body moved, and moaned.

Pasha wrestled briefly with his conscience; no good could come of involvement with someone dumped out here, alive or dead. But it was cold, and wet, and he’d never been good at ignoring the helpless. He went to examine the body.

It was a man—young, very thin, dark-haired. Couldn’t really tell much beyond that—he was very wet, and cold enough that shivering had begun to ebb to a constant low-level trembling in all his limbs. Not much blood or obvious damage, though the face was bruised and lips split. The eyes fluttered briefly but didn’t open. Pasha sighed, picked up the semi-conscious man, and draped him across the torn seat in the cab.

He hurried to the back and opened it up, pulling out the two tarps tucked along one wall and returning to his “patient”. He wrapped the man tightly, then closed the door and went to free the wheel from the rocky obstruction.

As soon as they were back in motion, Pasha coaxed the heater into its highest settings, soon stripping off his own coat and draping it over the silent passenger as well. After a time, he realized the man had slipped into sleep, mouth slightly open and a hoarse, breathy snore rattling out from time to time.

When they arrived home, Pasha went inside to open the doors and start a fire going before coming back for his passenger. He carried the man, long legs dangling, through the house to the sitting room with the grand fireplace, what had once been the kitchen in the house’s earliest days. He lay his burden on the sofa and began stripping off the layers of coat and tarps, leaving the clothing in place for now. As he laid his coat aside, the man suddenly jerked and began a long, violent coughing fit that seemed to go on forever. By the end, Pasha found himself propping up narrow shoulders and rubbing his guest’s damp back, trying to calm him.

The man’s red-rimmed eyes slowly opened, and Pasha was startled to see one of deep, rich brown, and another a pale grey-green-blue, almost colourless in the dim light. That was when he realized, actually—before his passenger said a word, he knew: this was the Chechen’s spy.

“My name is Pasha Volkov,” he said, helping the man lie back against the cushions in exhaustion. “And one of your contact lenses has gone missing.”

He’d known that would get a reaction, certainly, though his conscience smote him briefly for pushing things when his…guest?... was at such a low ebb. That, though, was when he was most likely to hear truth.

The pale eye, the one he could see more clearly, was fever-bright, not surprisingly. What was surprising was the startling flash of intelligence—he could almost _see_ the thoughts racing by.

“Yes,” a hoarse, surprisingly deep voice croaked. “I was…in an accident. Lost my way after I left my car. I was very cold; I must have lost my lens when I fell.”

“Mm,” Pasha hummed. “But why such dark lenses? When you’re so pale, I mean.”

“I am very sensitive to light,” the man said, before beginning to cough again. This time the coughing left him exhausted, panting and pale against the cushions. Pasha went into the bathroom and returned with mentholated ointment.

“I will put this on your chest; it will help you breathe,” he said. “But first, if you are to be a guest in my house, I will have your name.”

“Ilya,” the man said. “Ilya Ivanov.” And Pasha sighed, knowing the lie—he knew, now, what the Chechens had picked up on. It was likely not obvious when “Ilya” wasn’t stressed, or ill. But now, there was a slight lag before he spoke—though his Russian was perfect, both in vocabulary and accent, it was as if he had to remind himself what language to speak, what words to use.

“Well, Ilya, you are safe here,” Pasha said as he rubbed ointment on Ilya’s thin chest. “And perhaps tomorrow, we can go to the _Politsiya_ , and see about your car.” He rose, wiping his hands, amid silence from the sofa. “In the meantime, I’m going to bring you clothes, some soup, and aspirin. Hopefully you’ll feel a little better in the morning.” He saw his patient settled on the sofa for the night as promised, and then headed off to bed himself, still undecided about whether to tell Borodin.

 

 

 

He heard the clatter in the night—something falling, something rattling along the floorboards. As he half-expected, he rose to find Ilya stretched out prone in the hall, halfway to the back door, wearing Pasha’s coat and hat. His patient’s hoarse breathing was audible throughout the room.

Pasha walked over slowly and squatted beside Ilya’s head. “Going somewhere?” he asked calmly.

“I need to leave,” Ilya panted. “Please. I swear I mean no harm to you or any honest person.” He left off speaking and segued into a deep, rattling cough.

“Well, as to that, I can’t swear to be all that honest,” Pasha said truthfully. “But I can’t let you leave. Not until I decide whether to give you to Borodin or not.”

That certainly got a reaction. Ilya was suddenly on his feet, lurching towards the back door, caroming off the walls as he went. He didn’t quite make it.

This time, he wasn’t conscious when Pasha went to pick him up. Pasha thought, sighed, and carried him off to the bedroom, where Ilya slept fitfully, and Pasha listened to his harsh breathing far into the night. And, come daylight, he crept out of the room and called his daughter, and told her he could not come this weekend.

That evening, the true fever started. Ilya had spent most of the day dozing and coughing, refusing food and reluctantly downing a little water, or broth, or cider. By nightfall, the coughing had intensified, and Pasha was becoming worried that the Chechens may have had reason to be concerned.

He had long since helped Ilya remove the remaining brown contact lenses, and was now aware of pale, glittering eyes watching him periodically from the bed. But Pasha didn’t worry now about Ilya trying to escape—he’d basically reached the point where Pasha had to near-carry him to the toilet and back, and even that effort left him gasping for air. The fever had seemed inevitable.

The next day was worse, his patient lapsing into incoherence when he wasn’t sleeping as if drugged. By suppertime, Pasha’s nerves got the better of him, and he placed a call to a very old friend who owed him a very large favour. Anatoly, a former Army medic, rattled up in a truck older than Pasha’s at just past 10 that night, and Pasha wasted no time hauling him and his large bag inside.

“It’s my sister Nastia’s boy, Ilya,” Pasha told Anatoly. “Got into some big trouble at university in Moscow, and some very bad people are still looking for him. Understand, Tolya—you were never here, he was never here, and I, as far as you know, am spending the week in Safony.”

“Yeah, sure,” Antatoly said, pulling out instruments to thump and listen to Ilya’s chest, and to take his temperature. “What’s he talking about, then?”

Because Ilya had started muttering to himself again, this time in a mixture of languages—French, maybe, English, and a bit of something Pasha didn’t recognize.

“God knows,” Pasha said easily. “He’s majoring in languages, you know. Wants to be an interpreter, or perhaps a diplomat someday.”

“If he survives,” Anatoly said, and Pasha’s head whipped around to stare at him, alarmed.

“He’s very ill,” the former medic said. “Pneumonia. I can give him penicillin—think I have enough with me, but you’ll have to watch him. Keep the fever down however you can, or it can kill him. Force liquids. I will leave both tablets, and liquid penicillin—use the liquid if you can’t wake him enough to safely take the tablets. It’s for children, so you must give him quite a lot—I’ll write it out for you, give you a measuring cup. Prop him up so he can breathe. The mentholated ointment is good, but bringing in boiling water and having him breathe the steam is better, if you can manage it. Or, if you have a shower, turn it on, hot as it will go, close the door and let him lie in there for half an hour or so.” He paused. “And pray. Because this is not a certain thing. I’m sorry, Pasha, but it’s true.”

Ilya grew worse by the hour. The fever rose, despite Pasha’s best efforts, pushing liquids, offering medicine, wiping hands and face with a damp flannel for twenty minutes at a time. Ilya’s breathing grew laboured, and Pasha boiled water, draped a towel over Ilya’s head, and held him over the pot to breathe the steam. It helped, but never for long.

In desperation, Pasha slid onto the bed behind Ilya, grasping him under his arms to pull his slight weight high up against Pasha’s chest to ease his breathing. It seemed to help; the coughing eased, enough that Pasha could return to coaxing him to take tiny sips of water, over and over.

The fever was unrelenting, however, and Pasha couldn’t risk trying to force aspirin down Ilya’s throat in this condition. Ilya raved; he pleaded; he wept. He called for people who weren’t there, piteously, then hopelessly. In the end, Pasha reflexively petted his head and found himself crooning, as he would have for one of his children. “Poor boy. Poor boy.”

 

 

 

 

After 36 long, harrowing hours, the fever finally broke. Pasha knew it would likely be back, but not as high, and hopefully for a shorter duration each time. He left Ilya sleeping his first true sleep in two days, and went to make himself a meagre breakfast and coffee. Once done, he took a brief bath, dressed, and settled in a chair with a book to wait.

Ilya woke gradually, shifting uncomfortably, coughing a time or two before his eyes fluttered open. He looked around, confused, before his eyes alit on Pasha.

“Why… where am I?” he rasped, then coughed violently while Pasha hustled for a glass of water and propped his shoulders up on an extra pillow. Once he’d settled, Pasha spoke.

“It’s Saturday,” he said. “You’ve been largely unconscious for two days, and very, very ill for most of it. You have pneumonia, but I believe you are getting better now. You must be quiet, and rest, and take your medicine and food to recover.”

Ilya blinked, thinking about that. “Am I going to die?” he finally said, very softly.

“No,” Pasha said firmly. “You are better, a little. And I have proper medicine for you, from a doctor. Sort of. Now, all you need is time and rest.”

They talked for several minutes, interspersed with coughs and brief rests for his patient, before said patient realized. His eyes went wide, and darted towards the door. Because he’d finally noticed that all of that conversation had been _in English_.

Pasha shot out a hand, to prevent even a feeble attempt at escape. “Rest easy,” he said. “You’re in no danger from me. But I know you are not ‘Ilya’, and I know you are not Russian. By your accent, I assume you are English, not American or Canadian. But what is one lone English boy doing out here, lost and alone in the middle of Russia?”

Perhaps because he was still so ill, ‘Ilya’ responded to the last portion first. “I’m not a boy,” he husked.

“Well, perhaps not quite,” Pasha said peaceably. “But I am more than old enough to be your father; in fact I have a son rather older than you. So ‘boy’ you remain. But English, yes; and alone. And perhaps lost, but accidentally so?”

Pasha could once again see thoughts flitting behind those remarkable eyes, still fever-bright and red-rimmed though they were. Running the odds, trying to think (with, clearly, a great deal of difficulty) of a convincing lie. He also, thankfully, saw him yield.

“William,” his patient said, closing his eyes briefly and leaning back into his pillows. “My name is William Sigurson. I am not here as an agent of any state, and I mean no harm to you, your family, your country. But I am here to do something very, very important, and if the Chechens, or Borodin, or even the _Politsiya_ hear about my presence, my mission, they will kill me, and you, and anyone else who may have heard something about me or helped me in any way.” He paused to gather strength before continuing; Pasha held the cup for him to drink again. But before he could say more, his breathing slowed, his eyes fluttering closed and staying that way. Pasha sighed, picked up the cup, and left him to his rest.

When next William woke, the fever had risen again. He was fretful, lost in his head part of the time, frowning and blinking at the ceiling for the rest. Pasha managed to get his medicine down him, and a little broth, but sleep was elusive as he tossed and coughed. Finally, after much thought, Pasha sat on the edge of the bed and touched his cheek to focus his attention.

“Listen,” he said. “When you feel a little better, you can tell me about your mission. And, if it truly will cause no harm other than to the Chechens, or those like them, to _bad people_ , I will help you, so that you can go home. I promise, William. So go to sleep now, can’t you?”

And was pleased to see, five minutes later, than his gambit had worked.

 

 

 

 

William woke with the sun; Pasha had left him to sleep in solitary splendour that night, since he no longer needed quite so much care, and trundled off to the sofa and a well-stoked fire in the sitting room. But he left the bedroom door open, so his patient’s bursts of coughing were easy to hear. One such burst lasted longer than the preceding ones, and was followed by a weak “Hello?” that had Pasha rolling out of bed with a groan.

Today, William was startlingly “present”—while his eyes were still red-rimmed, the glint of fever was gone, replaced by a gleam of quicksilver intelligence. He watched while Pasha brought in water, and medicine, and a plate of soft scrambled eggs, and swallowed it all dutifully. As soon as he was done, though, and Pasha had helped him to the toilet and back, that attention moved back to his host.

“Where did you learn English?” he croaked, as Pasha helped him into a chair so that he could strip the foul, sweat-stained sheets from the bed and replace them with clean ones.

“Oh,” Pasha huffed, as he tucked corners and layered on blankets, “university. I won a scholarship—thought about being a translator someday. Pretty good for a village boy, you know.” He finished, and hauled his patient back to the now-clean bed.

“But you didn’t finish. How did you end up here, driving illegal arms for Borodin?” William asked, not deterred by his own relentless coughing one bit.

“Afghanistan happened,” Pasha said simply. “I was finishing my first year when I was drafted. I was supposed to have a deferral until I finished, but my mother lacked the necessary funds for bribes to make sure my name stayed out. I stayed almost 10 years, off and on. By the end, I was a married man—going back to school was not an option. Truck driving was safe, mostly, and good money.”        `

William subsided slowly into the pillows, stifling a yawn impatiently. “But you’re not a truck driver anymore, not really.” Another yawn, followed by a third.

“No,” Pasha said, pulling up the duvet and turning out the lamp by the bed. “But I can thrill you with the tale of my recruitment into a life of crime another day. Too much excitement is bad for you, you know.”

William’s snuffle of sleepy amusement followed him out of the room.

 

 

 

 

After lunch, which William barely ate, Pasha gave him his medicine and watched him struggle to settle comfortably without coughing. It was clear this wasn’t just physical—his patient, now that he was coherent, was once again fretting at this enforced idleness, worried about his mission. Distraction was the order of the day, then.

“So,” Pasha said, reaching for an additional pillow and shoving it forcibly behind bony shoulders, to achieve a higher tilt and hopefully better airflow. “You are here to accomplish something. I have told you I will help you, if I can, if it does no harm to me or mine. But it would be good to know what it is I’ve committed myself to. I think you owe me that, William.”

William looked torn; from his behaviour in his fever, Pasha knew he’d been very, very alone, for far too long. But that very isolation made it difficult to choose to end it.

“Trust is a difficult concept, especially for someone who is used to relying solely on themselves,” Pasha observed. “But if you are to succeed, you must trust someone. It will be weeks before you are well enough to act on your own, but with my help, we can begin preliminary steps soon, ones that don’t require you to do the physical bits. Trust me, William.”

William stared, those startling eyes darting restlessly over Pasha’s face. But, in the end, he had no choice, and they both knew it.

“There is, was, a man named James Moriarty. A very bad man, who is now dead,” William began. “But his operations spanned the world, and they continue on, in the hands of his lieutenants and underlings. What keeps them running is money: like an international conglomerate, money earned in an operation in Russia funds those in Brazil, or France, or Shanghai. We’re talking billions of whatever currency you want to name, every single year. And these operations—their aim, pure and simple, is misery. Chaos. Pain. If it causes damage to the human condition, Moriarty’s web is likely involved. Drugs, human trafficking, illegal arms, revolution—all of it, funding each of the interlacing parts like some carousel of the damned. Borodin is part of that.”

He paused, coughed violently, laced an arm around tender ribs. Pasha handed him a glass and made him drink before he continued.

“When I left England, I had one mission:” William said finally, “to break the web. Stopping one portion would accomplish nothing; the others would simply recruit a replacement, and the motion would continue. Success could only come if each link was destroyed in tandem. I have spent the last year and more doing just that, in England, France, Germany and China.”

“So, you kill these people?” Pasha asked, thinking not, but wanting to be sure.

“ _No_ ,” William said quickly, then coughed and drank more water before he could continue. “I am no assassin,” he finally rasped. “I am…think of me as a saboteur, of a sort. I’ve completed my sabotage in those places, and those operations are done for. I collect my information, I identify the key players, I either find or manufacture sufficient evidence to turn them over to international authorities, honest ones.”

“And now you turn to Russia. For Borodin,” Pasha said.

William nodded. “To Russia, and then Hungary, and finally Serbia. That’s the last of them. There are small subsidiaries in the US and South America, but we can leave those to the Americans, with the right coaching. They’re reasonably competent at such things, and those arms are relatively minimal anyway. Without the support of the European operations, they wouldn’t survive long.”

“Who is ‘we’?” Pasha asked. “At first it was you, but then it was ‘we’.”

The Englishman looked startled. “Oh, I…well, I do have some help,” he said finally. “But only at a distance. He can’t be seen to have any involvement. Lives are at risk—not just mine, others,” he finished, with a pleading look at Pasha.

“Yes, I get it,” Pasha said soothingly. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t tell anyone. You know this, William.”

His patient looked uncertain, and young, and a little frightened, though Pasha was sure he’d be horrified to hear that Pasha could read him that well. But Pasha had raised three children on his own, one of them a boy. He had seen faces like that before.

“I’m not afraid,” William flared hotly. “I would hardly have gotten this far if I were.”

“Ah, well, I can be afraid for both of us, then,” Pasha said. “It’s probably my turn, anyway.”

 

 

 

 

“So, your target is Borodin,” Pasha said later, after William woke from his nap and took his medicine. “Why? He runs guns, yes, but it’s a simple cash-only operation. Illegal, but largely local, I would think. Keeps the Chechens killing each other, instead of killing Russians. Or Englishmen.”

William was silent for rather too long. Finally, “It’s not cash-only,” he said. “That may be the part you see, but that’s far from all of it.”

Pasha shook his head. “No, I’ve been working for him, off and on, for almost five years. It’s always the same—we load the trucks with the guns, mostly from Pakistan and China, and ship them off to the Chechens. I know that one of his competitors runs opium, but we do not. I’ve seen the cash, William.”

“Once it’s stored in a counting room or storage, yes?” William asked. “But you told me that you don’t collect payment. That’s the runners’ job, normally—they have a regular collecting run, picking up all payments on a set schedule using an armoured vehicle. So you drivers don’t handle payment, just delivery. The run you just did, when you found me, was the only time you’ve ever collected payment.”

Pasha nodded.

“So are you ever there when the runners come in?” William said. “When they physically bring in the payments?”

“No,” Pasha said, “but I’ve seen the counting room. It is a great deal of money, William.”

“I’m sure it is,” William said. “But I’d be willing to bet that much of it has been sitting in that same room for months, if not years. The money is a _front_ ; the big prize is the opium, the drugs. And it comes from the Afghans, mostly, with perhaps some from Pakistan or China. The Chechens act as intermediaries; they use part of the guns they buy to pay for the opium, then turn around and use the opium to pay for the next load of guns. The opium is cheap at the source, so long as you’re willing to run the risk of travelling to those places to collect it—the guns are far more expensive. Both sides are happy, both sides make a profit. But the profit for Borodin is ultimately siphoned off, and the drugs are either sold outright to processors in other countries, or processed somewhere here in Russia and then sold. Borodin keeps the cash, but the web keeps the opium and the proceeds from it.”

Pasha glared at his patient, still unconvinced. “No. He told me. I made sure,” he said. He _had_.

William huffed in exasperation. “When you were with the Chechens, did you see any boxes? Biggish, square, heavier than you’d expect?”

“I…well, other than the box with Borodin’s payment, no,” Pasha said. “It’s out in the truck—I’m to give it to Borodin when I go back. But that’s just cash—probably mostly bills, maybe some gold coins.”

William coughed, coughed, then gestured towards Pasha. “Open the box,” he said. “Bring it in, and open it.”

Pasha shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “If Borodin thinks I tampered with it—”

“It was rattling around in the back for hours,” William said. “Bash it around a bit, make it look like it caught on something and tore open. You’re no idiot. You know how to do this.”

And yes, that was true enough. If only to keep the peace, Pasha trudged out to the truck and hauled the box inside.

He brought it into the bedroom to open—he knew William would complain if he didn’t. He brought his knife with him—the box had many layers of packing tape wrapped around it still, even though it was somewhat battered from sliding around in the truck bed.

While William hectored him impatiently from the bed, Pasha took his knife and carefully slit one run of tape, then took his hands and yanked, hard. This had to look like natural damage, not pilferage. It was tough tape—it took several tries and a great deal of strength before the cardboard suddenly gave, and one large corner of the box pulled free. And there, packed tightly into a cube, were dozens of plastic film-wrapped rectangles, brownish black, sticky-looking as the contents clung to the film. And Pasha knew what it was.

He didn’t remember rising; didn’t register anything, in fact, until he was to the front door and yanking it open. A bottle of vodka had somehow materialized in his hand.

“Pasha! Where are you going?” William called, coughing, choking, then calling again. “Pasha!” His voice got fainter as Pasha left the house, left the garden, kept on walking until he was surrounded by trees and insect noises. He stayed there, gulping down vodka, until his heart stopped pounding, and his stomach stopped trying to reject his last ten meals, and he managed to subdue the instinct to climb in the truck, this very instant, and go kill Gregor Borodin with his bare hands. The sole restraint on that instinct was the realization that it would almost certainly kill William as well.

When he finally made himself go back inside, he was unsurprised to see William sitting in the hallway, determinedly trying to force himself to the door. He picked him up, half-carried him to the bedroom, and sat him on the edge of the bed, while William coughed and wheezed and tried to catch his breath, glaring all the while. Pasha brought him water, made him drink it, then sat down on the bed and sighed, while staring down at the box full of carefully-wrapped opium. When William’s breathing had calmed, the coughing slowed, Pasha was ready.

“I am a father. I have told you this,” Pasha began, and William nodded. “I have two children, a son and a daughter. But I used to have three.” He reached out to pick at a loose thread on the duvet. “I raised them alone; my wife died when my youngest daughter was very small. They spent a great deal of time with my mother, but when she died in her turn, I moved them here. By that time, seven years ago now, my son Kolya was 26, grown and gone—he works many miles away. My older daughter Insa was almost 20, the younger, Natalia, was 15. They were old enough to care for themselves, for the most part—Insa saw Natalia to school, took care of meals and cared for the house. It worked well, or so I thought.”

He reached out and took a large pull from his bottle of vodka before continuing. William lay still, wheezing quietly.

“What I did _not_ think about was how this would look from Insa’s point of view. Her _babushka_ was dead, she was pulled across the country to this big, empty house out in the woods, knowing no one, with little money and nowhere to go. She couldn’t get a job—had to care for her sister, keep up the house, make the meals,” he continued. “And, in time, she rebelled—disappeared for days at a time, leaving her little sister frightened and alone. I was working for a trucking company, driving halfway across Russia every week—I wasn’t here to see. And then, one day, my little girl called me, in tears, from the _Politsiya_ station. She said Insa was gone—I asked where, and she just cried harder. And, finally, an officer came on and told me Insa was dead—found overdosed in a dirty shed behind the train station. She had been there at least a day before anyone found her.”

“What did you do?” William asked, still quiet, still wheezing.

“I came home. Too little, too late, of course,” Pasha said. “Quit my job, and tried to make things right for my daughter, see her through school, maybe off to university if she wished. She was only 15, though, and very, very angry, both with me and with Insa. She remains angry, all this time later, though she will deign to see me, so long as I stay away long enough at a time. She lives in Safony now, far from here, with her mother’s sister. She is seeing a boy there. I expect she will marry him, by and by.”

He looked back at the box of death on the floor. “Borodin came to me, after. Said that he’d heard I was looking for local work—this was before I sent Natalia to Safony, when I hoped she would stay. He was looking for drivers with military training, those able to handle attacks if need be. I wasn’t surprised, exactly—I had heard of him, even knew a couple of drivers. But I also knew he was crazy, and dangerous. So I told him. Told him I was who he was looking for, on one condition: that I would never, ever, be involved with anyone who moved, bought or sold drugs. He agreed, completely—said he understood, said he hated them himself. Told me a song-and-dance about an old friend of his who died at the hands of dealers. His business was guns, and only guns, and they were sold to the Chechens, or occasionally the Afghans—not to be used against Russians. Even claimed to be _patriotic_ , evil little bastard. And me, stupid, trusting me, believed him. And kept believing him, all this time.”

“Because you needed to,” William said.

Pasha nodded. “Because I wanted to. Because I needed the money. Because it was easier.”

They sat in shared silence for a bit, while William subsided into his pillows, and Pasha continued to work on his vodka. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this yet.

Finally, when he thought William on the verge of sleep again, the Englishman spoke, in a slurred, exhausted tone. “So, would you like to help me bring him down?” And Pasha gave him a tipsy grin, and nodded.

The next morning, he called Borodin and lied. Told him he was trapped by bad weather between Safony and home, told him the truck had broken down in a snowdrift, told him it would likely be a week or more before parts could reach this country backwater to repair it. And, finally, assured him his money was safe, and that Pasha would deliver it as soon as he returned, even before he went to his own home. Borodin, not unexpectedly, first shrieked that he would have Pasha killed, grudgingly amended to just having him beaten, and finally agreed, if only to get Pasha to _stop talking_. Pasha was good at talking. He hung up the phone a contented man.

 

 

 

Once their mutual future was decided—putting together a scheme that would break Borodin—Pasha turned to the interim task that had to be completed first: bringing William back to good health.

William, to his credit, recognized the need for rest and nutrition; he just wasn’t very _good_ at either of them. Even while the fever continued to return in the afternoon and evening, he persisted in trying to convince Pasha to help him out of bed, help him go for a walk, help him…well, honestly help him be anywhere that wasn’t the bedroom, flat on his back.

He was _bored_ , so he said; too bored to read, too bored to listen to music (“I’m a _musician_ , a violinist,” he snarled. “Why would I want to hear this amateur sludge?”), definitely too bored to watch television on the three channels available out here in the woods. He resented Pasha’s refusal to loan him his phone, despite having given himself a violent headache the first time Pasha allowed it.

The boredom was forestalled briefly in the first full feverless day; after pondering it for some time, apparently, William suddenly announced that Pasha could be allowed to go collect his “cache” and bring it to the house. “There’s little of value in it, currently, but it would be something to do,” he said. Pasha dutifully took the hand-drawn map and a shovel, and returned with a dusty metal suitcase that William had buried not far from town before catching a ride out to spy on the Chechens.

On his return, Pasha dropped the suitcase next to his patient’s bed (sleeping, again—William would be _so_ annoyed) as a surprise. He was in the kitchen beginning on dinner when he heard William’s crow of delight. They spent the evening sorting through various subversive electronics, a phone and charger which William handed off imperiously for Pasha to plug in, and bags of clothing and the like that the Englishman was rather shifty about. “You’ll see,” he said absently. “Now, hand me my phone.”

By the evening of the second day after the fever broke for good, William was irritable, easily tired, but desperate for a bath.

“I can’t _stand_ myself,” he whinged. “Just fill the tub. I can do the rest. I’ll come straight back to bed, I swear!”

Against his better judgment, Pasha turned on the water heater and filled the huge old tub in the bath, then went to collect his patient. William managed to walk to the tub under his own power, but faded rapidly thereafter. Pasha did the bulk of the cleaning. While William wallowed thankfully in the water and was blissfully happy to be clean, by the time his hair was washed his eyes were closing periodically despite his efforts to keep them open.

Pasha had to help William out of the bath, and then into pajamas, and then onto the bed, to sit, exhausted, while Pasha briskly dried his hair until it fluffed in little dark coils.

Unable to resist, he reached out and tweaked one curl gently, while William sniffed and tried to pull away. “There’s many a young lady who’d kill for such hair,” Pasha teased. “No wonder the Chechens were hopeful.”

“What are you talking about?” William asked, slouching down into the pillows with a sigh.

“The Chechens hoped to sell you to the Afghans as a _bacha bazi_ ,”* Pasha said. Then, as William looked blankly back, “a catamite, sort of,” he added helpfully.

“A—I’m _thirty-one!_ ” William sputtered.

“You don’t look it. Not even close,” Pasha said calmly. “And you’re rather pretty. Delicate, even. They like that.”

William’s fine features turned a brilliant shade of rose. “I’m not _delicate_ ,” he huffed. “I’m six feet tall.”

Pasha grinned. “Willowy, even,” he crooned.

“My hands are _huge_ ,” William rasped, holding them out to demonstrate.

“And delicate,” Pasha countered. “Such fine-boned fingers. And musical, so you said. Violin, isn’t it?”

“Oh, shut up,” William said, crossing his arms and turning over to give Pasha his back. Soon enough, he was snoring again, which was all to the good.

 

 

 

 

A full two weeks after Pasha had picked up a dying man in the middle of the road, his patient was well enough to be aware that he was not yet well enough to do anything substantive. “But time is _critical_ ,” William said in a frustrated snarl, when a supervised walk to the main road and back sent him back to bed in exhaustion, leaving him sound asleep for more than four hours.

“Which is why you must do nothing that will extend the process, yes?” said Pasha, well-versed in handling cranky convalescents. “But there is something we can do, now that you are feeling so much better.”

“If you say ‘recuperate’ I will strike you,” William said darkly.

Pasha managed, just, not to laugh. “No, of course not,” he said. “While you cannot do anything physical as yet, there’s nothing to prevent you from enjoying that brain you’re so proud of, now is there?”

“No,” William said warily.

“Excellent,” Pasha said. “So, I have been thinking, while you have slept. I’ve had a great deal of time for that, after all.” William made a rude gesture, and Pasha could feel the grin expand on his own face. “Ah, well, I won’t tease,” he continued. “But I have had an idea. Something that will serve both your purposes and mine—see Borodin brought down, see the drug route disrupted, hopefully for good.”

“What? What’s the idea? What do we need to do? Is there something—” William began, speaking faster and faster.

“No, don’t get ahead of yourself,” Pasha said, holding up his hands in a demand for calm. “I will tell you all, and we can plan. But before the plan can be put in place—and understand, William, even then, this plan will take months to come to pass—we must find a way to introduce you to Borodin’s inner circle now—within the next day or two, in fact, since my ‘grace period’ has run out. We must get you inside, as I am, or it will not work—the longer you stay here in hiding, the more likely it is that someone will discover your presence, and all will be lost. So _that_ , my dear, is what you can do. Think of a way that I can introduce you to Borodin, that will explain why I found you, abandoned and ill, but did not turn you over to the _Politsiya,_ and lied to Borodin about where I was.”

“I wasn’t _abandoned_. I _escaped_ ,” William said crossly.

“From a chicken coop, most likely,” Pasha responded, with a roll of his eyes. Seeing William’s brow furrow in resentment, though, he relented. “Very well. You escaped, despite being ill. And you did manage to walk nearly 20 kilometers. So well done, you.”

William huffed. “Yes, I did,” he said. “It was—wait,” he said, stopping suddenly. His face transformed, now glowing with excitement, with realization. “Oh!” he said, eyes opening wide, mouth in a perfect circle. “ _Escape!”_


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Pasha put their plans in motion. It involves lordly audiences, bomb-making, and a surprising amount of bowing and scraping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief warning--there are references here to sexual assault and slavery. It's not real, but I wanted to mention it in an excess of caution.
> 
> One additional note: when Pasha and Sherlock are speaking alone, they speak English. That explains why Pasha's diction is a little awkward, as opposed to the Russian scenes.

**_Sherlock_**  

The first step, two days later, was altering Sherlock’s appearance. “You said it yourself,” he told Pasha, “I look much younger than I am. I need to capitalize on that—for this tale to work, I need to look attractive and young.”

Pasha snorted. “You are already attractive, Villyam. I have told you this—delicate and—”

“ _Willowy_. So you said,” Sherlock huffed. “But I also need to appear as someone old enough to be on my own, if only just, but easily overcome, not dangerous in any way. I doubt we can play on Borodin’s sympathies, but I need him to believe that my skills and knowledge are valuable, if he ‘protects’ me.”

Pasha grumbled, but did what needed doing—dyed Sherlock’s hair with one of the packets tucked in the suitcase, pulled out the multiple sets of contact lenses and helped him settle on the turquoise ones. When they were done, and Sherlock’s hair had been styled into ginger ringlets, his eyes now ocean blue-green, Pasha snickered. “You look like some nasty Afghan’s wet dream,” he said. “Pretty, young, and helpless.”

There was a fine line to tread here; if they believed Sherlock a passive victim of sexual captivity, their reaction would be contempt—they would, likely, toss him to the Afghans and collect any bounty they could.

 

 

 

 

They waited another two days; Sherlock burned with impatience, while wilting with fatigue. Even with the extra time, Sherlock occasionally struggled to breathe freely, and spent long hours sleeping—hours he would have preferred be used for additional planning and fine-tuning. As it was, he barely had the stamina to complete the few necessary arrangements that had to be in place before they approached Borodin.

Finally, after Sherlock had been reduced to practicing with his throwing knife into the smooth wooden walls of the bedroom, Pasha broke. “All _right_ ,” he said. “We shall go tomorrow. I will call Borodin and set the hook. But understand, Villyam—I cannot influence Borodin’s actions. He will do as he wants. So you need to be very sure this is a risk you are prepared for.”

Sherlock had no doubts that could be assuaged by any additional delay. “Whether we do it now or later, the play is the same. And the sooner we go, the sooner we’re done.”

“One way or the other,” Pasha said morosely, and went off to call Borodin.

 

 

 

They set off after lunch in the old truck, the re-packaged box of opium sliding roughly in the back. Sherlock, much to his disgust, found his anxious tics in full flight: knee jiggling every time he took his attention off of it, fingers flicking of their own volition.

Pasha noticed, of course. “We do not have to do this, Villyam,” he said. “I can go alone; tell Borodin you are too ill to meet yet.”

“ _No_ ,” Sherlock said instantly. “We need to get this part done with. I can manage. Just react normally; you know the basics, but I don’t want to tell you too much—spoils the effect if you’re not really surprised.”

Pasha rolled his eyes. “Wonderful,” he said. “You consider me both simple, and a bad actor.”

Sherlock found himself grinning, without really meaning to. “Well, I don’t really know about your acting yet,” he said, and was rewarded with Pasha’s smack to the back of his head.

 

 

 

It was like something out of one of those terrible gangster movies John had insisted they watch, once upon a time: overdressed thugs in an overstuffed “office”, complete with a raised dais and table for Borodin and his lieutenants to look down on the plebs from. Sherlock wondered idly if someone was going to insist they kiss Borodin’s hand.

An unsmiling Russian, tall, balding and overweight, ushered them “into the presence”, leading them to a spot in front of the smuggling kingpin, sitting in blue shark-skinned splendour behind the table (Sherlock didn’t know anyone actually _made_ sharkskin suits anymore). One plump hand waved, indicating it was safe to speak.

“This is William,” Pasha said, while Sherlock concentrated on looking young and traumatized beside him. “As I told you, he had been held by an Afghan warlord as a _bacha bazi_ for several weeks, and recently escaped while the Afghans were meeting with the Chechens. He was—”

Borodin held up his manicured hand again, and Pasha stopped talking as if slapped. “Let the boy tell me,” Borodin said. “It will be easier to tell when he is lying. You are too good at it,” he added, and Pasha gave an abashed grin but stayed silent.

“So, how did you end up in the hands of a _bach_?” Borodin sneered. “Nice little English boy like you.”

This, then, was the opening to the version Sherlock had to sell. He folded into himself, stepped fully into the role. To be effective, he had to believe it himself when he was saying it.

“I was…,” he let his voice trail off, holding a trembling hand to his head. “Can I have a chair?” That was both for effect, and because he was beginning to find he needed one. He had, to a degree, overstated his general health to Pasha; while he was definitely much better, he was constantly aware of a need to cough, and sometimes found himself not taking in enough air, despite his best efforts.

One of Borodin’s minions brought over one of the chairs from behind the great table, without looking to Borodin for permission. That was a good sign. He gave the man a small, shy smile.

“I was in northern Kazakhstan on a small expedition with a university friend of mine,” Sherlock began. “We were doing seismic testing, hoping to find a viable oil deposit that could be drilled by his uncle’s company. I was along to, well, provide certain testing tools. We were to stay a month, no more, and then I would be back in Europe with a sizable payment in my pocket.”

He infused his voice with adolescent anger and sorrow. “But, a week in, the Afghans came. Rode up in a fucking caravan, armoured vehicles, guns, the lot. They stole all of our equipment, shot the guards, shot my friend.” His voice now wobbled; his eyes filled. “I thought they would shoot me as well. But one of the men, a huge man with a long black beard, stopped them. He was educated, spoke English, spoke Russian. I _told_ him, said the oil company would pay a ransom, I was sure of it. And he smiled, and nodded, and put me in his truck.” He was weeping openly now. Pasha, watching his face, poured a glass of water from the carafe on the table and handed it to him, and he took it gratefully, hoping to forestall the looming coughing fit a bit longer.

He managed to continue, now looking stonily at the floor. “Of course, when the caravan stopped, I discovered my error. I was dragged to a tent, thrown a bundle of robes, told to strip. I didn’t—and when Kabir came in, he grabbed my hair, put a knife to my throat, and then used it to cut my clothes off.” He paused, coughed violently, and drank again.

“From that day, I wore a woman’s robes,” he went on, very softly, struggling to speak. “I was kept in Kabir’s tent. If they stopped, I was paraded, my head covering and veil removed, a leather leash around my throat. I was required to sing at dinners; if I performed poorly I was beaten, but never anywhere that would leave visible marks. Finally, two weeks ago, they headed into Russia, and I decided this was my only chance; I knew if they finished their business here and took me back to Afghanistan, I would never escape. Russia was good—I speak good Russian, though the Afghans didn’t know it, I know a few people, I could find work long enough to earn money to return home.”

He coughed again, long and hard. It was not proving as effective as it had been, and he could hear himself wheezing, low and continuous. He was also becoming slightly light-headed.

Before he could continue, Borodin interrupted. “What kind of work could you do in Russia, without papers? Because I am quite sure you have none, boy.”

Sherlock hesitated. “I…chemistry,” he stammered. “I am a chemist.”

“Who was doing what, exactly, for that oil company?” the _Mafiya_ leader said coldly. “The small oil company, that, going by your tale, likely had no permit to be in Kazakhstan, or they would have had Kazakh government minders and guards in place, ones who would have certainly given the Afghans pause?”

That was impressive; appearances to the contrary, Borodin wasn’t stupid. Sherlock had rather hoped that would be the case; leading him to understand that nuance would have been tedious otherwise.

“I…it was the explosives,” Sherlock said, and several people behind the table stiffened, in either surprise or interest. “You have to set off small explosions to create the seismic signals, but it’s impossible to get dynamite or the like into Kazakhstan without the government knowing. Teddy knew that I could craft liquid explosives, if he provided the basic ingredients, so he brought me in.” He was wheezing harder now.

Borodin also looked interested, but waved his hand for Sherlock to continue.

“We reached the Russian border a little over two weeks ago,” Sherlock said, his voice shaking again. “They joined up with a group of Chechens, some ways south and west of here. Most of the Afghans stayed in tents in the forest, but the Chechens gave Kabir house room—which meant me as well, of course.”

Yvgeny, the man Pasha had described as Borodin’s primary lieutenant, looked up at the mention of the Chechens, but said nothing.

“I was…the Chechens took to making me drink,” Sherlock said, voice shaking again. “I don’t, I’m not a big drinker, and they thought that was funny. Kabir didn’t drink, though, and he would beat me if I was ill. The Chechens thought that was funny as well. And it was---” his voice broke, and he sobbed momentarily, before roughly dashing away tears. “I decided, then. And so, late one night, they were all drunk, except for Kabir, who had smoked a great deal of hashish. I had to, um, I went outside to the toilet—he would let me do that alone, at least, though he made me go barefoot to do it. When I came back in, he was asleep, and there was—he had left his weapons in the corner. Pistol—his rifle was still in the truck—and his knives. He wore them in wrist sheaths.” He was sobbing again; he stood, abruptly, and paced frenetically in front of the table, while Pasha looked on, concerned.

“I pulled out one of the knives,” he gasped, wringing his hands, “and I cut his throat. Then I took the keys to his truck off his stinking body, and I drove. But the truck ran out of petrol after only a few kilometers, and then I walked. And when I could no longer walk, I, I guess I…” he put his hands over his face, shoulders lurching. Someone, Pasha, most likely, gently took his arms and guided Sherlock back to his chair, where he sat, shaking, staring at the floor.

“I found him lying in the middle of the road 25 or 30 kilometers from Shishani’s place, on my way to Safony,” Pasha said quietly. “He wore nothing but his robes, carried nothing—no ID, no money, nothing. I couldn’t leave him to die; took him back to my place, tried to treat him. He got worse and worse; I finally called in a medic, who probably saved his life.”

“How convenient it is that he cannot prove any of this,” Yvgeny said, sneering at Sherlock’s trembling hands and lip.

“He _can_ prove it,” Pasha said, hurling the bundle of clothing he carried to the floor in front of Borodin’s assembled henchmen. “These are what he was wearing when I found him. The blood is not his.”

The outfit had been specially prepared—a woman’s long robe purchased from a Chechen woman in town by Pasha, liberally sprayed with chicken blood donated by their chosen dinner two days ago, left to dry, and then thrown out in the rain for several hours. Sherlock was happy with the result. They had the intended effect, certainly—the assembled criminals nodded in surprised respect.

Borodin raised his eyebrows, and looked at Pasha. “But why, then, Pasha Alexeivitch, did you call me, and tell me a lie about your truck? Delay giving me my proceeds from Shishani, and harbour this boy, this nobody?” His tone was calm; Pasha knew better than to believe it.

“Because of what he told me, when he wasn’t raving from fever,” Pasha said. “About what he heard, from the Afghans and the Chechens. And what it means for you—for all of us.”

And at that dramatic point, Sherlock suddenly began to cough—hard, and deeply, quite unstoppable. It began as stagecraft, but segued quickly into something less benign. But he milked it, certainly; stood, wavering like a blade of grass in a breeze, clutching his ribs and looking beseechingly to Pasha for help. To add a touch of pathos, he let himself gag. That, though, turned out to be a mistake—the gag swelled, as did his throat, and he found himself vomiting, violently. And he was coughing, and coughing, and Pasha was shouting, and it all got very confusing, his chest pulling and pulling, but no air came. And then there was nothing.

 

 

 

 

He woke abruptly, some noise or movement nearby having startled him. There was a medicinal smell, and electronic beeping in the background. He laid with eyes closed momentarily, capturing as much information as possible before any observer was aware he was awake. Pasha, of course, put paid to that idea.

“Villyam!” the older man said, in a relieved tone of voice, as Sherlock opened his eyes to see the man hovering by his side. “You are awake. I am glad—you are not allowed to frighten me so, you know.”

First things first. “Are we alone?” Sherlock asked softly, and waiting for Pasha’s nod before proceeding. “Where are we? And what happened?”

“You are in a—well, not a hospital, really, just a place where Borodin has something he can call a hospital, and play the local benefactor. But there are real doctors, and they have treated you—you stopped breathing, you know?” Pasha said, sounding a bit shaken.

Sherlock hummed. “I presumed so; my last memory is of choking, not being able to breath past—" He stopped himself, jerking his thoughts briskly away from the details.

“I thought you were faking,” Pasha said, with a downcast look.

“I _was_ faking,” Sherlock said, “right up the point where I fainted, mostly. I didn’t plan that part, but I suppose it worked out well, in the end.”

Pasha blinked. “But—you were sick. You coughed, and then—" he made a graphic wave of his hand to demonstrate. “How did you—”

Sherlock gave Pasha a baleful look. “I have to expend considerable effort _not_ to think about what is currently lodged in my lungs and, on occasion, my mouth. It’s a simple matter to just stop fighting, and let nature take its course.” He really thought Pasha should have figured that out. Honestly. It was _vile_ , and—

He needed to stop thinking about that _right now_.

Pasha, thankfully, had finally got the gist of the matter (or seen his face fade from pale to green). “OK, OK, I see,” he said hurriedly. “The good news is, your treatment should make that better as well.” He peered closely at Sherlock. “Should we not talk too much about the details of that treatment as well, Villyam?” he asked. “Or just say ‘suction’ and be done?”

Sherlock swallowed, hard, and closed his eyes.

“Yes, we are moving on,” Pasha said briskly. “You are hooked up to a drip, to help the medicine finish off the last of the infection. Maybe a bit of something to clear your lungs as well; I did not really listen. They had you on oxygen for a few hours, but they’re taken that off—your breathing is now acceptable, I’m told. They will check you again in the morning, and probably release you by afternoon, once they have done enough to impress Borodin with their thoroughness.”

“’Release’ me? I thought this wasn’t a hospital,” Sherlock said. “More Borodin’s little vanity project.”

“Well, that is so,” Pasha said. “But they are proper doctors, so that counts. And now Borodin knows you were not faking. Well, not entirely, anyway.”

Ah, so he _did_ understand. “Exactly,” Sherlock said. “Though I honestly expected something more along the lines of a personal physician.”

Pasha gave him a minatory look. “You’re lucky it was here. You should have told me you were not breathing well; we would have waited another day or two.”

“And I might have choked on my own secretions,” Sherlock said. “This way, I got quick treatment, and provided Borodin with considerable ‘proof’ of my sufferings. I call that a win.”

“Of course you do,” Pasha sighed. “Thankfully, though, there is better news than just this. We have another meeting with Borodin tomorrow, this time at his home. We are invited to dinner, and, if we survive, to stay the night due to your delicate condition.”

Sherlock coughed, then laughed. “’If we survive’?”

Pasha waggled his hand. “You must understand, Villyam: Borodin is crazy. Truly crazy. One never knows when it will peep out, and when it does, people die. I believe we will be safe, so long as he believes the story. But there are no guarantees; we talked about this. I can still get you to Safony before they know we are gone, if you wish; my family will help you over the border to Ukraine, and you can come after Borodin when you are stronger. I would likely go with you; one does not resign from Borodin, you know.”

“And that would add months to my, _our_ , mission,” Sherlock said, “with lower odds of success.”

“But the odds of _survival_ are higher,” Pasha said. “It would be safer.”

Sherlock felt his lips quirk of their own volition. “I think neither you nor I have ever been particularly concerned with that, Pasha.”

Pasha laughed, and ruffled Sherlock’s hair before he could manage to dodge. “But I have an obligation, as the adult, to make a positive example, do I not?”

“Based on my own observations, you are _older_ , but that doesn’t necessarily make you an _adult_ , as it is typically described,” Sherlock sniffed.

“Fair point,” Pasha said philosophically.

 

 

 

 

 

True to Pasha’s prediction, Sherlock was released at 4 the following afternoon, after a night of sedated sleep and a day of increasing irritability and boredom.

“Thank God,” Pasha moaned, as they climbed thankfully into his decrepit truck. “I didn’t think I could listen to yet one more argument, and you’d started repeating your insults, so even that was no longer amusing.”

Sherlock had to admit that. His verbal creativity had quite deserted him. “I’m not at my best,” he grumbled. “You know this.”

Pasha nodded. “All the more reason to get this over with,” he said. “At this point, my bed sounds much more attractive than Borodin’s dinner table. At least you got to sleep last night; my accommodations were much less comfortable, you know.”

“I told you to leave,” Sherlock said, feeling his face flush. “I didn’t need you there to hold my hand; for the most part, I wouldn’t have known the difference.”

“Ah, well, _I_ would have known,” Pasha said. “And I would have worried, nonetheless. This way, at least my only worries were boredom and a bad back.”

 

 

 

 

 

The house, when they arrived, was much as Sherlock had expected: a typical _nouveau riche_ mansion, ornately decorated and surrounded by a host of expensive cars and fussy landscaping. Pasha swung around the side and parked his decrepit truck beside a sleek Jaguar, just next to a wall of windows on the north side of the house.

Yvgeny met them in the lobby with a scowl. “You can come through here,” he barked. Pasha gave him a lazy smile and beckoned Sherlock to follow along. _Some history there_ , Sherlock thought.

They were ushered down dark-papered corridors to double doors on their right. Yvgeny knocked, and a uniformed servant (at which Sherlock rolled his eyes at Pasha, receiving a grin in return) opened the door and led them into a large dining room, gilded and adorned to within an inch of its life. Sherlock was amused to see plaster _putti_ installed around the ceiling lines (“little bare-arsed babies”, as John had once notably described them when a case took them to the ancient country house of a duke).

Along the wall was spread a banqueting table designed to hold at least twenty diners. It was currently occupied by one—well, two, if one counted the servant hovering at the end of the table. Two additional place settings were laid opposite Borodin, installed in his place like a Renaissance lord.

The criminal looked up theatrically at their entry, as if surprised to see them. “Come, sit,” he said genially. “I had hoped that you would join us.” He looked to Sherlock. “Are you recovered then, young sir?”

“For the most part,” Sherlock said. “I must thank you for the medical care; it was unexpected and welcome.” He put on his very best manners; Mummy would have been pleased.

Borodin held up a disparaging hand. “Please,” he said magnanimously. “You are our guest; it is our privilege to see to your wellbeing.” Pasha made a quiet choking noise beside Sherlock, then jerked when Sherlock poked him, hard, in the ribs.

The minion busied himself with pulling out chairs, taking drink orders, bringing in platters of appetizers. It looked attractive, and Pasha certainly indulged quickly, though Sherlock’s lack of appetite was almost complete at this point, between illness and his various medications. He sipped at wine, and picked at a piece of bread fitfully.

Under normal circumstances, Sherlock would have been shocked that no business of any kind was discussed during dinner. Pasha had prepared him, though.

“He likes to think of himself as some sort of modern-day feudal lord,” the older man sneered. “I’m told he was furious when it turned out there was no source for stone building blocks within 500 kilometers, so he had to make do with a mere mansion, instead of a castle. But he follows what he thinks are ‘lordly’ ways—meals are for eating and polite conversation, no more. Yes, I know, don’t make that face—he has seen too many old movies. But do not violate this rule, Villyam—he will know I have told you, and will not take it well.”

The meal was more than adequate, not that Sherlock really ate much of it. He did try, particularly after Pasha gave him a speaking look, gesturing at his still-full plate. Fatigue and mild nausea made it impossible, though he did make an effort with the rich soup.

They had just finished their dessert, a surprisingly good raspberry sorbet that Sherlock ate most of, when Borodin reached up his hand and snapped his fingers at the flunky standing silently at the end of the table. The minion scuttled off to parts unknown, and the criminal turned his attention to Pasha.

“Before we go any further—where is my payment from Shishani, since my receipt of it has now been delayed for some considerable time?” His tone was deceptively mild. Pasha was not fooled.

Pasha pointed with his chin towards the wide wall of windows along the far end of the dining hall. “There’s my truck,” he said, and indeed, the old vehicle was clearly visible through the windows. “The box is in the back. It’s a bit beaten-up, but they taped it well, so it should be fine. I haven’t checked.”

Borodin nodded, mollified. “Very well,” he said. “We shall examine it shortly, and see if I have more issues with you than just the delay.” At that point, the doors opened again, and the minion returned, Yvgeny behind him and a manila folder in his hand. He carefully held the folder out to Borodin, while Yvgeny moved to stand threateningly at the far end of the table, near the windows.

Borodin reached out, took the folder, and tossed it onto the table between them. He flipped it open and began reading aloud.

“William Sigerson,” he said. “Age 22, student in Chemistry at Cambridge. Sent down for, oh, will you look at that, _blowing up a laboratory_ with unauthorized explosive experiments!” He shook his head dolefully. “You have been a very, very bad boy, William.” Clearly, Moriarty’s espionage capabilities remained vigourous, even here in the hinterlands.

Sherlock felt his face flush, thankful that Borodin would think it embarrassment, rather than relief. Mycroft did have his uses, after all—he hadn’t been sure his request for a false background had gotten through. Ironically, the facts of the story were true, barring his age, name, and the lapse of more than 10 years’ time. He’d been an overachieving 17, and the explosions hadn’t been _entirely_ his fault, no matter what Mycroft said. And his suspension had only lasted two months.

Sherlock infused adolescent sulkiness into his tone. “It wasn’t my fault,” he said. “And ‘unauthorized’ doesn’t mean ‘illegal’, you know.”

“Mm,” the gunrunner said. “But prospecting for oil in a foreign country when you have no permits definitely _is_.”

“It wasn’t my company, or my project,” Sherlock objected hotly. “I was just the hired help. I never even got _paid_ , as it turned out.”

Borodin threw up a soothing hand. “Peace, child,” he said, “far be it from me to object to a little poaching. The Kazakhs are pricks, anyway. The required bribes to travel through into Afghanistan go up every two months, with nothing to show for it. My real question is this: why should I help you? Why shouldn’t I throw you back to the Afghans, or let the Chechens do it on my behalf?”

“Because the Chechens are planning to kill you, and the Afghans are helping,” Sherlock said.

That got everyone’s attention, certainly. Yvgeny came to attention, bristling like a dog on point at the end of the table.

“How so?” Borodin growled. “Why would my allies, my _partners_ , wish me harm, and why would they tell you?”

“They didn’t tell me, exactly,” Sherlock said. “But I heard them talking. They didn’t realize my Russian was so good—never asked. So I pretended I didn’t understand, and was allowed to stay in the room while they discussed business. Kabir often insisted upon it, in fact—made me kneel beside him,” he added bitterly.

“And what did they talk about?” the gunrunner asked, trying unsuccessfully to appear disinterested.

“They said that you had served your purpose. You had ‘introduced’ them to each other, and set up the original lines between Russia, Afghanistan and Chechnya. But you charged a great deal for your involvement, and anyone could provide them with trucks and drivers. I believe the phrase used was ‘cut out the middleman’”, Sherlock replied.

Borodin’s face flushed a deep red. Under the table, Pasha placed a cautionary hand on Sherlock’s leg.

“And how did they plan to go about this coup?” Yvgeny asked into the silence. “Are they building an army of some kind?”

“That, I don’t know for certain,” Sherlock said. “But I suspect it might have something to do with the bombs they had me make.”

All air sucked out of the room. Here, then, was the pivotal moment.

“And can you prove this?” Borodin said, in an unsettling, quiet tone.

“I…the materials are possibly still there. With the Chechens,” Sherlock stammered. “And they were, the Chechens packed the bombs into boxes. Big, square boxes with lots of tape. If you take me to where you store such things, I can…”

Pasha coughed politely, and gestured in horror towards his truck. “There is such a box in my truck. The box intended for you, Borodin.” He paused to look directly at Sherlock. “A box with a great deal of tape on it.”

“How are the bombs charged?” Yvgeny demanded. “Is there a motion sensor?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I don’t know how to make those,” he said. It was a lie, of course, but not relevant to this conversation. “They have timers, and also can be detonated remotely, with a transmitter. But,” he suddenly added, looking earnestly at Borodin, “I can also defuse them. It’s no problem.”

Borodin and Yvgeny looked at each other, and then Borodin jerked his head. Yvgeny paled, hesitated, but then nodded and headed outside. Sherlock rose from his seat to approach the windows; Pasha followed him, placing a restraining hand on his shoulder.

Just as Yvgeny reached the back of the truck and placed his hand on the latch, there was a sudden thunderous roar. The side of the truck disappeared, as did part of the dining room wall and all of the windows. A scorching blast of heat and shattered glass howled through the room as Pasha threw himself atop Sherlock, who suddenly found, to his intense annoyance, that he was once again unable to breathe properly. And he tried, and tried, and was lost to the dark.

 

 

 

 

He woke, once again, to electronic beeps and the smell of disinfectant. An oxygen feed hissed into his nose, and he felt ill and sore—like a sunburn, oddly, all along the right side of his body. He reached a shaky hand up and touched his face, and felt heat from his swollen cheek.

His motion roused something else—Pasha suddenly stood by his shoulder, standing over the cot. “You evil child,” he said. “You blew up my truck.” He didn’t, oddly enough, sound especially angry. Sherlock squinted in the dim light, and could see reddened flesh on Pasha’s face, and a spray of bandages arrayed up his arms.

Sherlock started to reply, but coughed instead. Pasha hurried to offer a cup of water and a straw, then raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“I couldn’t tell you,” Sherlock croaked. “You had to be shocked. I know you’re a reasonably capable actor, but this, above all else, needed to be _real_. If he realized it was not as it seemed, he’d kill us both.” He coughed again, and Pasha held the cup once more.

Because, of course, the plan had been to simply create the bombs, and let Sherlock “defuse” them. Sherlock had told Pasha that he only had a receiver in his stock of electronic bits and bobs (as well as plastic explosive) from his cache. As it happened, he also had a tiny transmitter, which he slipped into his trouser pocket, then dropped to the floor and crushed as soon as he pressed the button. It was now presumably buried in all of the other debris blasted through the wall, if the whole building hadn’t burned.

It all boiled down to this: there had to be a way to return the box, and establish that Sherlock had been made to put a bomb inside, without Pasha ever seeing the opium (since Borodin didn’t know they had already opened the box before ever thinking about bombs or subversion. At least not on Pasha’s part). Borodin knew Pasha’s violent objection to drug running, and would never believe Pasha would remain loyal if he knew the truth. Pasha hadn’t been able to come up with a viable plan to get around that, since he would presumably be in the room while Sherlock was “defusing” the bomb. Which meant the bomb needed to actually explode, making the presence of the opium moot.

He hadn’t actually told Pasha that last bit either, but the older man had evidently worked it out on his own.

“You could have told me, Villyam. We would have thought of something. But I know I will never convince you, so I will stop trying,” Pasha sighed. “Now, would you like to know the rest, or should I ring for your doctor and have them bring you medicine? I can see you are in pain.” And Sherlock was, though he hadn’t realized it until Pasha said so. Medication sounded attractive, but there were things he needed to know first.

“Tell me,” he husked, and got another sip of water for his pains. Then Pasha settled back into his chair at the bedside, and told the tale.

“It has been almost a full day,” Pasha began. “They have kept you asleep to give your lungs a chance to rest. You and I have minor burns, yours a little worse, but nothing serious. I know they hurt, though,” he said, gesturing ruefully to his face. “You will stay, perhaps, another three days. The heat from the explosion did you no good, nor the burns, so we must make sure the infection does not return.”

He leaned back in the chair and stretched, then continued. “Yvgeny is alive, as I suspect you planned. Concussion, a broken arm, but little more—the door blew open and threw him, but protected him from the blast. The house did not burn, but it was a near thing. My truck is in many, many pieces, but God is good—Borodin has provided a replacement, somewhat newer and in better condition.”

Sherlock shifted, and gasped as scorched skin rasped across the sheets. Pasha leaned over and pushed the call button before continuing.

“Now, the biggest part,” he said, raising his eyebrows. ”The Chechens are dead. I was not involved, but Borodin sent me a message telling all. The Chechens denied the presence of any Afghans in the last two weeks—unsurprisingly, since none were ever there, but Borodin did not know this. No bomb-making materials were found, but a supply of additional boxes was, which was interesting because they were clearly not intended for Borodin. The Chechens had apparently been skimming off portions of their proceeds to send to other suppliers. Borodin would have killed them solely for that, so I feel no guilt at accusing them falsely, nor should you.”

Sherlock started to tell Pasha he didn’t. But he restrained himself—Pasha was a sentimental soul. No point in disillusioning him.

A nurse bustled in, checked Sherlock’s vitals, tutted and checked bandages, and finally (thank God) injected something blissful into his drip. By the time she left the room, he could feel warmth beginning to spread through his veins.

Sherlock started to tell Pasha to go back to his story, but was interrupted by a violent coughing spree, which ended with Pasha supporting his shoulders and patting his back soothingly. By the time it finished, Sherlock wanted little more than sleep, but he still wanted to _know_. All of it. The most important part.

“So did it work?” he managed, and relied on Pasha to know the rest, since his throat was now objecting violently to further speech.

Pasha nodded, resting a hand comfortably on Sherlock’s arm, draped limply among the covers. “It did. You have received an offer of employment, Villyam. A quite lucrative offer, I would say, though it includes multiple duties—part of your time spent with me on runs, part of it, when Borodin requires, building your little toys. We will have the use of my new truck, and you were offered lodgings here in town, but I thought perhaps you would prefer to stay at mine out in the country, if only to be out from under Borodin’s eye.”

Sherlock managed a nod—his eyelids were now quite heavy, though he was fighting the bleariness.

“And, as soon as you are well, we will be meeting with some friends of mine, someone I know from Afghanistan,” Pasha continued, quietly now. “Someone who feels as I do about drugs, and would be quite content to convert a tidy drug running operation to a tidy gun running one. And this will serve both our purposes—I will have my revenge. And you will be able to go home.” He smiled, and patted Sherlock’s arm again.

“I don’t need a father,” Sherlock said crossly, driven by an instinct he didn’t quite understand.

“No, of course not,” Pasha said soothingly. “But you do need a partner. And I will be that good partner, Villyam. I will be glad to be that partner.”

And Sherlock smiled, and let sleep take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap, ladies and germs. Dragon, m'dear, I hope this hits the spot for you!

**Author's Note:**

> *Bacha Bazi is real, unfortunately, and is still a problem in Afghanistan. Wikipedia describes it as "a slang term in Afghanistan for a wide variety of activities involving sexual relations between older men and younger men, or boys. The practitioner is commonly called bacha baz (meaning "boy play" in Dari Persian) or simply bach. It may include to some extent sexual slavery and child prostitution. Bacha bazi has existed throughout history, and is currently reported in various parts of Afghanistan. Force and coercion are common, and security officials state they are unable to end such practices because many of the men involved in bacha bazi-related activities are powerful and well-armed warlords." As recently as 2017, it was reported that an American Special Forces officer, Capt. Dan Quinn, was relieved of his command and pulled from Afghanistan after fighting with an Afghan militia commander for keeping a boy as a sex slave.


End file.
